“Oh, the portrait of a remote ancestress, _so_ remote that even tradition has little to say about her, except that Sir Walter Raleigh wrote sonnets in praise of her beauty.” “That beauty has been faithfully handed down,” said Em. “The resemblance has, at any rate. But, my child, who told you that the picture there was my portrait?” “Oh! Several persons, I think; but the first person who said so was old ’Sias, the gate-porter at the Wilderness Manor.” “Ah! I know—a little shriveled old man who refers everything back to the time when he was a boy, several hundred years ago, ‘more or less?’” “Yes,” laughed Em., “the very same.” “What other marvels did he tell you about me? I would like to know. I have never seen the old creature, nor any one else belonging to the old Wilderness estate, although I am their lady; but I have heard about them through my agent, and I am aware that many strange reports are afloat respecting myself, merely because I appear here only a few months in the year, and then live a strictly secluded life. Come! What have you heard respecting your namesake, Emolyn?” “Oh, dear lady, many absurd rumors, that I now perceive must have been false. That you were a semi-supernatural being—a ‘White Spirit’; that your form was seldom visible, but when seen it was clothed from head to foot in long, white robes; that your face was never seen by any one, for it was always hidden beneath a white veil that flowed over your whole figure.” “I could laugh, Emolyn, were not my laughing days past. White, indeed, is my usual dress when here in summer. It is the most convenient and comfortable wearing apparel. Often, too, when walking about the grounds of my isolated island home I have thrown over my head, instead of hat or bonnet, a white gauze scarf. From their boats on the river, or even when sightseeing on the island, or in the house, the marvel-mongers have seen me so, and so reported me. You know how a story grows by repetition where there is nothing to contradict it? I was never seen in any way but this, for I never left my island home except to leave the country, and I never received any visitors. Behold the mystery of the White Spirit!” Em. sighed. It is not always and to all persons an unmixed pleasure to have a beautiful supernatural illusion dispelled. She would have liked to tell the lady her vision of the radiant woman, on the first and second night of her stay in the old Wilderness manor-house; but she felt that the time had not come for such confidences; and, furthermore, that the time had come half an hour ago for her to take leave of her new friend and start for home. “And what more do they say of me, child?” continued the lady. “That you are the benefactress of the neighborhood and—White Spirit, or what not—you are an angel of benevolence.” “It shames me to be over-praised, little girl. Tell me something they say which is not praise.”